Pizza for One
by iluvcm
Summary: Dean climbed into Sam's bed, trying to be as silent as possible. Sam could guess why Dean was crying, and trying ever so hard to hide it. They sat against the headboard, Dean leaning his head against Sam's shoulder whilst he shuddered with the tears and thought of everything that had happened and how his relationship with Cas had crumbled.


Dean climbed into Sam's bed, trying to be as silent as possible. He was surprised when Sam rolled over: he'd thought his brother was asleep. Dean had snuck into the bed, something he hadn't done since they were little kids, for need of Sam's warmth and presence and the tickle of his breath on his forehead to calm him down. A sleepy brother was comforting, but a conscious one was even better. Sam shifted into a sitting position, ignoring Dean's offer to help, and pulled his brother into his embrace. No words were exchanged, no questions asked. Sam could guess why Dean was crying, and trying ever so hard to hide it. They sat against the headboard, Dean leaning his head against Sam's shoulder whilst he shuddered with the tears and thought of everything that had happened.

He remembered when the angels fell and he'd half carried, half dragged his brother out of the church and to the car. He remembered calling for Cas, and getting no answer, so hauling Sam into the impala and driving as quickly as he could to a hospital. The doctors had no answers, of course, but they did make Dean give a pint of his blood to Sam, because luckily they had the same blood type. That had made Sam a little less pale and fragile. They also gave Dean numerous bottles of pills to dose out to Sam on a regular basis. The blue pills seemed to keep down the fevers and the headaches, and the white and red ones made him sleep soundly through the night. Dean had needed those white and red ones badly - not for him, but for Sam. He remembered the rasping voice calling his name, eight, maybe ten times during the night. Now Sam slept until morning.

The little white and red ones were a big help, but there was no pill for the nightmares. If Dean was going to give up hunting for good (he was only giving it up temporarily until Sam got better - that is, _if_ he ever got better) he was going to invent a pill to scare away the nightmares. It wasn't rare that he himself would wake up, sweaty and twisted in sheets after seeing a sleep conjured Sam die from a very real sickness that the real Sam had, and that really, honestly, could not be cured. The Winchesters had had more than their fair share of nightmares, but waking up to screaming from your old room where your brother was sleeping and running to his side at three in the morning had seldom happened. Now it was a regular occurrence.

He remembered the weeks that passed when Sam hadn't got any better, so he'd made a schedule, just to enforce some kind of routine into their suddenly very home-based, normal lives. When Sam woke, he would get dressed. This was a feat in itself, and left the younger Winchester pale and breathless on the edge of the bed. He dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt. Buttons and zips were out of the question when your hands shook too much. As the weeks and months passed, he had started to wear Dean's t-shirts, as the sleeves his own fell past his fingertips. He weighed barely half of what he used to.

Dean was a light sleeper. He always had been. It was essential when you were a hunter, but even more so when you were a carer. He would wake upon hearing Sam fumble about, then get up to make breakfast for them both, which he would bring to his brother's room. It was now his brother's room, not his. He had laid a dying Sam there, on his famous memory-foam bed, after he had almost but not quite completed the third trial. Even now, two years later, they hadn't changed.

After breakfast, Dean would help Sam up the stairs and they would go on a drive to town to pick up some food and supplies. Dean always insisted that Sam came along for the ride to lend a hand, but Sam was not much help. He stayed in the car while Dean was in the shop, hunched in the passenger seat and listening to the music playing with a blank stare on his face. The supply run didn't have to be made daily, and Sam didn't have to come, but Dean was adamant that Sam left the bunker at least once a day, although he would never admit that this was the reason for the daily trips.

On their return, Dean would make lunch. He had become quite the chef in the years after the angels had fallen, even purchasing some recipe books and proper utensils. Every meal was different, he made sure of it. Dean was all for routine, but for his whole life he had eaten the same burger and fries in some grotty roadside café so he'd wanted a change. Plus, Sam had to eat as healthily as possible. Dean experimented with all sorts of food, once driving them to the other side of Kansas to purchase a rare type of cheese for a sauce he wanted to make. He hoped that his brother enjoyed the food, but honestly, most things tasted like cardboard to Sam, and they both knew it. But Dean wasn't going to have them eating plain pasta, burgers and takeouts every day, so they always bought organic, fresh food from a farmers' market on their outings. Dean remembered Sam once saying that organic food was one of the "good things" in life. He hoped Sam remembered too.

As far as he could tell, Sam appreciated the effort his brother went to, though Sam didn't talk much now. He usually just sat in his room, reading the pile of books that either Charlie had brought on her visits once a fortnight, or that Kevin had sent over from PrincetonUniversity. Dean had bought a large TV, and at first they had watched a lot of movies and programs together, but then Sam had gotten tired. The sofa in front of the TV was a long way from his bed. It was when he had stopped watching that Dean had taken down the weapons that he'd put on the wall so long ago for fear that his brother might use one on himself. Later, after he'd discovered the bloody wrists, he'd extracted all of the nails in the wall, leaving just a multitude of holes for Sam to gaze at vacantly.

"Shower Sammy," Dean would say, knocking on the half open door at around eight pm. Early on, he'd put a plastic chair and a rail in the shower so Sam would be safe when Dean wasn't around. Once upon a time, after knocking, he would walk into the room and help Sam get slowly out of bed, then guide him to the bathroom. Then, later, Sam had demanded that Dean let him walk by himself, so he did. He remembered watching his little brother fall to the floor within the first couple of meters. He'd driven him to hospital and they came back five hours later with a cast on Sam's wrist. Sam was not the man he used to be. That was when he'd decided to get his brother a zimmer frame of some sort to help him walk, or at least a walking stick. They had both been refused, so Dean installed a handrail going around the whole house, on every wall; on both sides of each hallway, so that Sam would be safe when walking alone. Sam wouldn't let his brother see him using it, but Dean knew it was being used because the smooth wooden rails creaked ever so slightly if Sam gripped them tight enough.

"Dinner Sammy," he'd call from the kitchen. He'd shout this before serving up and laying the table so that Sam had enough time to get to the table without the food getting cold. They'd eat in silence, they always did, staring at the map under the glass tabletop. The map-table was huge, placed just outside the library, and was where they ate their meals if they didn't eat them in the kitchen. (Sam had forbidden them to eat the two tables in the library because they might leave grease stains which would damage the books and scrolls and artefacts if they forgot to wipe the table down.) Dean would clear away and wash up while Sam shuffled back to his room, grasping the handrails tightly. When everything was clean and tidy, Dean would grab a beer - non alcoholic for Sam's sake, and sit on the sofa. He'd watch something, maybe read a recipe book for ideas, and when it got to ten thirty, he'd walk to Sam's room and tap softly on the door. Sam would always be in bed, lying on his back in a clean t-shirt and boxers. He would be staring expressionlessly at the ceiling, only snapping out of his trance when he heard his brother say with a small smile: "Night Sammy."

He remembered the first time the routine had been thrown out of the window: when Cas returned, two years after the angels had fallen and they'd stopped hunting because Sam could barely walk. Dean had opened the door with a loaded .45 in his hand, only to drop it on the floor when he'd seen Cas. It was lucky the safety catch was on. It was Cas who had the shower that night, Cas who got the meal choice, Cas who got the attention. After Cas had knocked on Sam's door and the younger Winchester had pretended to be asleep, they'd almost forgotten him. Dean felt awful for feeling it, let alone admitting it aloud to Cas when he knew all too well that a wide awake Sam would be and listening, that it felt good to have some new company. It felt good to have a friend back home.

When Dean learnt that Cas was human, and Cas had wept in Dean's arm's, saying that he was useless and that he should just leave, Dean had told him to stay and not be so stupid. Sam had listened when Dean said he'd teach Cas how to be human. He'd teach him everything: how to sleep, how to eat, how to go to the bathroom. It seemed there was nothing Dean wasn't prepared to do for his fallen angel. And suddenly, the bunker was filled with talking and laughing again. Sam listened from his bed, the door ajar. He was jealous, jealous of their friendship, of the jokes they shared, the conversations they had. Dean could tell.

Cas had stayed the night, Dean sleeping on one sofa in the library, Cas on the other. Dean always slept in the library. It had been where Sam slept, before the third trial at least. There were other bedrooms in the bunker, but all of them were cluttered with boxes and WW2 transmitting equipment, or needed a paint job and the bed replacing. The bunker was echoey and Sam could hear them talking long into the night.

It seemed Sam had become very good at listening. Dean remembered the first time he'd kissed Cas - quick and chaste and tasting of that non-alcoholic beer they'd been drinking. He'd thought of Sam, lying on his back on the bed, listening. And for once, he didn't care. He didn't care that Sam would hear his next words, uttered in a strangled voice as he stared at the floor: "'m sorry Cas, I-" and then Cas's reply: a deeper kiss where their chapped, rough lips got stuck on one another's and Dean forgot where his body ended and Cas's started. Sam had had his fair share of experience. He knew what was going on, with those half finished sentences and muffled moans. Dean knew that Sam knew, and what ran through his head shocked him: So? Sam's barely there anymore. He's a dead man walking, barely walking - hobbling - what does it matter that he heard you and Cas kiss?

Dean pushed those thoughts back down and mentally apologised to Sam as he closed his eyes and cried silently. Sam moved closer to his brother and put his arm around his shoulder.

What Dean hadn't been able to say that first night, was that he would teach Cas _everything:_ sex included. So they'd found a room in the bunker, as far away from Dean's old room as possible so that Sam couldn't hear them. Of course, Sam knew what they were doing. He didn't really mind. Any other time in the world he would have been grossed out and would have gone out and hopefully returned after his brother had put his pants back on, but now, he was too tired to care. It was easy to block it all out with his broken, fragmented dreams. The things he thought of scared him. He wanted to cut off the hands that shook so much that he spilt food down himself and Dean had to dab at his brother's mouth with a cloth and an apologetic smile tinged with a longing for a strong, healthy Sam. He wanted to stab and cut and rip his weak legs that wobbled and made him stumble, causing Dean to pick him up in his arms and utter soothing words in his ears. He wanted to slice and slash at his head for thinking about slicing and slashing his wrists and his thighs. His head hurt. Everything hurt. He didn't want to be Dean's sick baby brother any more. But he stayed silent. When he did talk, he repeated the same lies over and over and over again: "Yeah, I'm okay." "I'm good Dean." "Don't worry about me Dean." "I'm alright." "I'm just tired."

Dean knew. Of course Dean knew. And it killed him to see his little brother so damaged beyond repair that a little distraction like Cas was welcomed so whole heartedly. Soon afterwards, Cas moved in and Dean came to explain to Sam what was going on, but Sam laughed a little, saying something about it taking them long enough. Dean chuckled too, embarrassed, and closed the door quietly, leaving Sam alone to his thoughts.

That was at least what Dean told himself, but really, if he pushed away everything and just focused on his brother, he would see that every time he closed the door, he wasn't doing what Sam wanted him to do; he was doing what _he_ wanted to do. Dean didn't close the door because Sam wanted to be alone; he closed the door because _he_ wanted to be alone… with Cas. And deep down, very very deep down, Dean was aware of what he was doing. It was his job to watch out for Sammy, but it had all gone downhill. He had failed. Sam was barely holding on. Dean had screwed up. So instead of trying to pick up the pieces, Dean closed the door and let the pieces melt and fade into oblivion. Maybe he was afraid that the piece might cut his fingers and tumble back onto the ground.

Every day, Dean and Cas grew closer and Dean and Sam grew further apart. Cas would try, in his own awkward little way, to bring Sam out of his room to join in the conversations, but slowly, Sam started taking meals by himself in his room. Sometimes, they would be so deep in conversation, or indeed love making, that Dean would forget to knock on Sam's door at eight pm for a shower. Sometimes he'd forget breakfast until it was almost time for lunch, and they'd often eat dinner way into the night. Sam had stopped wearing a watch when he'd scratched at his wrists with the iron nail until speckles of sweet red blood had appeared. It had been too painful to wear one afterwards, especially as the scars were always fresh. He had learnt to hide it, one way or another, but Dean knew. He always knew. But he'd stopped doing anything about it.

Dean remembered how with every day, every hour, Cas became more human. He was a fast learner. He remembered the first day that Cas had gone to work in a coffee shop in town. That day they'd driven to the farmers' market for a much needed supply run. Sam hadn't left the house in six days. This time, like every other time, Dean asked, "you comin' Sammy?", and Sam shook his head in reply, huddling into his jacket. Dean slammed the door and started walking off, but then stopped. He jogged back to the impala and opened the door. Sam sat there with his eyes closed, not moving. Dean turned off the music and Sam opened his eyes. "You're coming." Sam rolled his eyes. Dean helped him out of the car, much to Sam's protests, but he was glad he did when he felt Sam stumble and clutch his forearm tighter. They walked, painfully slowly, to Cas's coffee shop. The bell tinkled loudly when they entered, and Sam sat, or half collapsed, into a chair at a table with a red and white gingham tablecloth. Cas had looked up when he heard Dean's voice, biting away a smile. He was touched that they'd come. Dean remembered leaving Sam there with a strong coffee and a plate of pie while he hurried off to get some food and supplies. He remembered getting the first proper laugh out of Sam in almost half a year, when he'd said: "I never thought I'd say this, but I want that pie to be gone when I get back, ya hear me?" Sam's eyes had lit up and his tired, sweaty face had split into a grin. Dean treasured that smile.

Then he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten about the smile, about looking after Sam, about caring for his little brother. It was like he left Sam to rot away in his room as they sat on the sofa, playing a movie that was just on in the background to drown out the noises of kissing. Cas got home at five, and they would talk and laugh and kiss. And Sam would listen. He had passed the point of jealously. What was the point of jealously when he was going to die anyway? They were all going to die, all going to return to the earth… what was the point of comparing himself to Cas? He had always been a burden. Dean could barely do anything with him around. So Sam let Dean forget about him. And Cas and Dean continued their happy lives while Sam lived in the shadows, fading away like a shadow himself.

One day something changed. They both knew that Sam could sense it. Again, it didn't bother them much that Sam knew. The air became tense and silent. Dean ordered take out and went to one corner of the library, while Cas, who sometimes still forgot to eat, went to one of the most obscure, hidden rooms in the bunker and tucked himself away to read. When Cas read, it was usually one of Sam's books that he'd gotten from Charlie or Kevin, and he's usually read it snuggled against Dean's chest on the big sofa while Dean ran his hands through his hair absentmindedly. When Dean ordered take out, it was because they were on the road, hunting a monster. Dean hadn't ordered take out in over three years. Junk food was his comfort food, Sam knew that much. And what he only realised now is that Dean had been cooking these healthy meals for his brother the whole time. Maybe even Dean himself had forgotten. Once upon a time he had been so preoccupied with Sam that every second of the day was spent thinking about him and caring for him and making sure he had everything he wanted or needed. Lately, cooking healthily had become something he did automatically because he'd done it for so long. He might have even considered it a hobby. It was nice to create something rather than destroy it with a round of bullets for once in a while. So when the doorbell rang and Sam could taste the smell of pizza wafting through the air, he could tell they'd had an argument.

Sam had developed rather a talent for figuring out what happened outside his bedroom. He just had to listen, or in this case, smell, to find out what was going on. The floorboards creaked in the room above Sam's head with a slow and steady gait that had to be Cas's. Dean's footsteps were quicker and lighter, having been trained to walk silently since he was a kid. It was obviously Dean pattering up the stairs as collected his pizza. It was his thank you, without the smirking flirtatiousness, that told Sam that he was still mad at Cas. (Dean flirted with everyone, constantly, if he was in a good mood, despite being in a relationship with Cas.) Sam didn't know why. Maybe Cas and Dean had argued when he was asleep, or maybe when they were out shopping and he had stayed in the car whilst Dean went to the Cas's shop to pick up some pie and two coffees. Or maybe Dean had finally remembered that his brother was still alive and it wasn't just a coincidence that Sam had no idea what they had fallen out over. Sam hoped that it would soon pass. It was one thing him being depressed, but if everyone else was in a rut and there was a permanent raincloud hanging over the bunker, things were a lot worse.

The next morning, after Sam had woken and dressed, Dean had knocked on his door. Sam made some sort of noise and his brother entered with a tray of breakfast. It was buttered toast and coffee as usual, plus his numerous pills laid out on a plate beside a glass of water. Sam had swallowed them one by one, Dean watching carefully. It wouldn't be the first time that Sam had overdosed or indeed pretended to swallow them and later spat them out, so Dean had taken to observing his brother intently while he took his medicine. After that, Dean would usually leave to have his breakfast with Cas at the kitchen counter or on the map-table just outside the library. Today however, Dean reached outside the bedroom door to pick up another tray that he'd left on the floor when he'd opened the door to bring in Sam's. On it was another mug of coffee, some toast and some bacon. He perched on the edge of Sam's bed and sipped his coffee.

"Smells good," Sam had sniffed. He hadn't talked in days and his voice was scratchy and hoarse. Dean winced visibly at the sound of it.

"Dude, no. You are _not_ getting any of my bacon."

"Jerk," Sam had muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Something in Dean had snapped with the sound of their teasing and the things they used to do years ago, when the world wasn't in danger and Sammy wasn't dying.

"Bitch." Then he'd sighed theatrically. "_Fine._ But only take a little bit!"

Sam had sniggered and took the larger strip of the two on Dean's plate. He'd popped it into his mouth before Dean could stop him.

"Duuuude! A _little_ bit not the whole thing!"

"Hey! I'm sick!"

Suddenly, Dean was still. Yeah, Sam _was_ ill. He was fine. Dean wasn't practically bedridden. He could fry some more bacon up later, Sam couldn't. "Yeah, you know what Sammy? Have the other one too." He'd tipped the other strip of smoky crispy meat onto his brother's plate.

"Did you just go all soppy on me?"

"…Maybe."

Sam had snickered. Boy it was good to hear him laugh, thought Dean. "Hey I'm in a soppy mood okay?"

"Everything okay?" Sam had asked, concerned.

"Yeah…" Dean had replied with the same old lie. "Yeah Sammy everything's fine don't you worry."

There was a silence while they swallowed their coffee and munched on their toast. Sam had left the bacon on his plate where it had fallen, and after a while, Dean had picked it up, eating it quickly before Sam could complain. They'd shared an amused smile as Dean cleared away both trays and gave his brother a tea towel to wipe his hands on, which were greasy from the bacon and crumby from the toast.

It had been nice to eat breakfast with Dean again. When they'd first got back from the church after the angels had fallen, Dean had spent every minute of his time in the bedroom with Sam, looking after him, eating with him, reading to him, helping him sleep. He had even bought in a chair and the cushions from the sofa so he could lie or sit down in the same room as his brother. Sam had gradually improved, and they'd started eating on the large marble counter in the kitchen, or on the map-table. They'd watched TV together on the sofa, and sat in the chairs at the library tables, reading. Then Cas had arrived, and Sam had retreated to his room, staying there for all of his meals and only leaving for the bathroom. They'd even stopped the daily supply runs, doing them once every couple of days; sometimes with, sometimes without Sam. Dean started bringing food to Sam's room, not really asking what his brother wanted to eat anymore. (Breakfast was always the same but Dean liked to take requests on what to cook for lunch and dinner.) Sam had shrunk back into the shadows and Dean had never followed, until now.

Dean remembered that morning with a sad smile. It had been nice to hear Sam laugh.

He remembered Cas leaving for work early that morning, without a goodbye. He hadn't eaten breakfast and Dean had assumed he'd eat at the coffee shop, as it was obvious he'd taken the early shift. The shop opened at six for the early morning commuters who popped in to grab a coffee and a bun or cake of some sort. The shop was somewhat famous for its patisserie. That shift finished at lunch time, so at one, Dean had sat anxiously on the edge of the map-table, waiting for Cas to come through the door. By two, Dean knew something was up. The shift finished at twelve thirty, and he still hadn't heard his Cas's car in the driveway. Dean wasn't even sure if he wanted Cas to come home. He'd forgotten how nice it was just to spend the day with his brother in a contented, comfortable silence, without being kissed, or having sex all of the time. Part of him had wondered what he ever saw in Castiel.

But part of him longed for his boyfriend. Or possibly his ex-boyfriend, he wasn't quite sure. They had been together for a year months - it was longer than any other relationship he'd ever had, and definitely longer than any Cas had had, only becoming human three years ago and being so bewildered, lost, scared and confused for the most part of the two years before he found the bunker that he hadn't had the time or energy to even think about a relationship. Maybe Cas didn't quite realise the proper rules of a relationship. Although Dean slept around, he was loyal, incredibly so, once he was actually in a meaningful relationship. Maybe Cas saw nothing wrong in staying late after work on a Friday evening and kissing your co-worker in the back of the coffee shop and coming back home to your boyfriend with tousled hair and swollen lips, smelling of another guy's cologne. Maybe Cas thought that disappearing for an evening to work the late shift at the shop was okay, but when Dean had gone to the shop to surprise his boyfriend, it being their one year anniversary to the date (and they'd run out of pie), he couldn't find Cas, and no-one had seen him. Maybe Cas didn't understand that you weren't meant to, once you got home from fucking your co-worker, to pretend nothing had happened as your boyfriend met you walking up the driveway from your car. They had argued there, outside the bunker door so Sam couldn't hear. Cas had lied, Dean could tell because he had lied for a living, once. Cas's cheeks were red and his body reeked of cheap cologne. His hair was irritatingly sexy and his clothes put on in a hurry. They had entered the bunker in silence. Cas had retreated to a room somewhere, his crimson face in a book. Then Dean had ordered pizza: pepperoni, extra cheese, thin crust, for one. For one: something Dean thought he would never have to say again.

The next evening, he'd seen a note. His mind had jumped to suicide and his heart had leapt into his throat. He hadn't been able to open the envelope and while he'd fumbled around, his heartbeat had almost deafened him and he'd gotten a paper cut on his finger. When he'd finally opened it, he found not suicide, but "I'm leaving you Dean, I've found someone else," he didn't know what to do. He should have felt or angry, or sad, but he just felt empty and broken and dead. Slowly, he'd put down the note on the table and started to clear away the boxes from his Chinese takeaway. He drank a beer, or two, before he'd realised that they weren't alcoholic because they'd gotten rid of all the alcohol in the house once Sam had been forbidden to drink it by the doctors. He'd taken a shower, moving slowly, feeling nothing except the hot water running down his back. Then he'd pulled on some boxers and a t-shirt he found. It might have been Cas's, he didn't know. They'd shared everything so he'd forgotten which clothes were really his. Cas had taken half of them anyway. Dean couldn't believe he didn't notice the little things that Cas left lying around were missing. They'd disappeared gradually over the past couple of days and now they were all gone. He'd sat on the sofa, Cas's sofa, and pulled out the duvet from underneath it. Huddling underneath it, Dean had felt alone, truly alone. The duvet was sweet with his fallen angel's scent but it was nothing compared to the real thing. Dean had wrapped his arms around himself and tried to pretend that it was Cas who was hugging him.

Then Dean had remembered Sam. Sam; who hadn't left him, who hadn't died even though he had been and frankly still was so close… Sam; who he had neglected ever since Cas had appeared that evening a year ago. Dean had been a horrible brother - a horrible person. He had left Sam alone when really, Sam needed nothing more than to be noticed and appreciated and loved by his older brother. Dean saw that now. There was no way he could make up for the year of abandonment, he was well aware of it.

At around two in the morning, Dean sat up and shrugged the duvet off of his shoulders. He padded down the hallway to Sam's room, and slowly opened the door, only realising now, in the silence, how loud his actions were. The last time he'd done this at two am, Sam had been screaming and sobbing uncontrollably. He was glad of the almost tangible silence. He climbed into his brother's bed, hot tears finally trickling down his face. He didn't want to cry, it was embarrassing and loud: he would wake Sam. He hadn't cried until now. But he supposed if one of them was to go into the other's bed at some obscene hour in the morning, _someone_ had to be crying. Sam exhaled quietly and turned over so he was facing his brother. Somehow, he knew. His eyes softened in the electric glow of his clock and he sat up, grunting and refusing to take Dean's outstretched hand to help himself. Dean laid his head on his brother's shoulder, biting his lip and closed his eyes to stop any sound from escaping. Sam snaked his arm around Dean and pulled him closer.

When Dean woke, he was tangled in Sam's long, skinny limbs. His neck was stiff from leaning against the headboard, although they had both slipped back into a lying position some time during the night. A little while later Dean realised Sam was running his fingers through his hair.

"You good?" Sam uttered when he saw Dean was awake, expecting the same reply he always got.

"No," Dean shook his head slightly. "I'm - I'm not okay." Sam was surprised at Dean's sudden display of truth.

"What can I do?" He asked, genuinely concerned.

Dean thought for a while. "This," he said, indicating the warm hand stroking his hair and the tight embrace. "I like this."


End file.
